Weapon
by Autumn Moon Fae
Summary: Natasha. Natalia. Rushman. Romanova. Victim. Assassin. Dancer. Spy. Murderer. Lover. Black Widow. "Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?" A series of oneshots showing the team's view on Natasha, and what they come to realize.
1. Tony

**Disclaimer (not forgotten this time!): I don't own the Avengers. Or...basically anything else. :)**

**A/N: I make the (pretty unbelievable) assumption that Natasha could beat Steve in hand-to-hand combat. So, before you kill me, don't say I didn't warn you. He wouldn't want to hurt her, and she has ten times his training. You've forgotten one very important thing, mate. She's the Black Widow. Savvy?**

**Oh...if you still want to kill me, please be nice about it.**

* * *

**Natasha**

**Tony, or "The Death Glare"**

Natasha and Clint arrived at the Avengers Tower about two weeks after everyone else did. Two minutes within entrance of her guest room, the tracker in her phone and the five security cameras in the hall were disabled. Rather hurt, Tony didn't bother replacing them. He lived in fear of her death glare.

So it was that the first thing Tony noticed about Natasha was that she was talented. Extremely talented. The word brilliant was reserved for himself, but in other circumstances it could – hypothetically – have applied to the Black Widow. Old Popeye was lucky to have her.

There was a sort of universal understanding regarding the training room. Clint and Natasha in the mornings, Steve in the afternoon, and Natasha again in the evenings that often stretched into nights. On a certain evening Steve was still there, attacking a punching bag, when Natasha entered with Tony on her heels, whining about "why Clint could call her Nat but he couldn't" until the gun strapped to her waist _clicked_ and he shut up. Rogers looked up and started to unwind the straps around his knuckles, mumbling an apology, but she got there first and offered to train with him.

Tony kept calling Bruce until he got down there – particularly frustrating seeing as he'd hacked his phone and changed the ringtone to "Call Me Maybe" only fifteen minutes ago. An exasperated Dr. Banner agreed to come watch "Nat beat the hell out of Capsicle" in order to make him stop. He did _not_ agree to accept Tony's bet of fifty dollars that she'd win within the next half an hour.

Steve looked stupidly nervous. It was obvious he didn't want to hurt her. He kept glancing around for support and asking "Are you sure?" until Natasha punched him. Hard.

It took her fifteen minutes rather than the promised half an hour to win the fight. Tony jumped up, clapped and reminded Bruce that he owed him fifty dollars – or a coffee – before the day was out. The Black Widow smiled – actually smiled – at Steve and for a moment almost looked like she might laugh. That moment lasted about two seconds before she turned and gave Tony the fabled death glare. He grabbed Banner's sleeve and made a hasty retreat.

The second thing he noticed about Natasha was that while she often acted the mature one along with Pepper and was willing to make jabs at the boys' expense (Pepper betrayed him!) she would not tolerate any questions about her personal life, her feelings or her well-being. Questions about past would earn you the death glare; emotions, sarcasm; injuries, shrugs. Tony, ironically enough, caught on to this first, maybe because he did the same thing. He hated questions almost as much as he did being handed things. He couldn't seem to get away from them. Rather than getting used to recounting his whole life again and again, he brushed them off. It was bad enough that he'd had to live it once. He took measures to ensure that no one knew he was living it again and again. He was Tony freaking Stark. Let them think he was invincible. It was always easier to swallow a well-worn lie than the truth.

One night after dinner, as per Mission Introduce Capsicle To Modern Technology ("Men and spiders assemble!"), they all gathered in the living room – Pepper trying to explain something to Steve, Tony sprawled over the corner where the two couches met, Bruce holding a cup of tea, Thor comparing the merits of cookies 'n cream ice cream to pop-tarts, Legolas perched on the back of the couch with chips, and Natasha on the end, head next to Clint's hand, flicking through S.H.I.E.L.D. files on her phone at unbelievable speeds. Tony idly turned on the T.V. and then rolled his eyes. They were showing some stupid ballerina thing. A rail-thin girl in a pink tutu pirouetted in the arms of some guy in tights under gold lights and fluffy pink scenery. So. Much. Pink. God, what channel was this?

Focused on displaying the epitome of boredom, he looked up at the ceiling. "Jarvis – "

He hadn't noticed Natasha get up.

Then the gun clicked.

His head whipped around faster than normal experiences could account for. He was just in time to see her hand jerk away from the trigger as if it had burned her. Both reactions lasted only one frozen, caught-in-the-act moment. Natasha gave him the death glare and he raised his hands in mock surrender. Still glaring, she stalked out of the room. No one said a word. Onscreen the dancers continued to twirl around, the romantic classical music somewhat ruined by the tension in the atmosphere.

Not wanting to speak to order Jarvis, Tony reached for the remote and switched channels. Propping his head up with his hand, he turned and raised an eyebrow at Clint. "Katniss?"

Clint just shrugged and shook his head. You shouldn't ask me and no, don't go after her. Tony went to get himself some alcohol. The day that _Natasha Romanoff_ had a history with frilly tutus was the day Odin adopted a Frost Giant. Or at least, the day Tony Stark got drunk over it.


	2. Steve

**A/N: So...update, anyone? **

**The song she's listening to here is "Born to Die" by Lana Del Rey. Enjoy Steve...or try to. I sometimes have trouble with that :)**

* * *

**Natasha**

**Steve, or "Super-Assassin-Spy-Messed-Up-People"**

Steve had a hard time dealing with the Avengers, truth be told. He was still a little out of it and woke up every morning to "Oh my God I'm in the future." Pepper was the only one who appeared to really try to explain things to him and Bruce the only one who seemed sympathetic. Tony…Tony was a little hard to get over. Although he regretted the harsh things he'd said to him before the battle, he couldn't deny he had trouble bringing together the memory of Howard Stark, the arrogant, sarcastic playboy on the Helicarrier and the raw gravity of the sacrifice he'd been prepared to make for them into one person – one person who seemed content to leave him hanging forever. If he could have approached Stark and asked him to tell him about his father's death, as he was tempted to do, maybe they would have gotten closer. But when he asked Pepper – his touchstone in these matters – whether or not to, she had told him in no uncertain terms to never, _under any circumstances_, bring up Howard. She left him confused, with yet another thing to take into consideration when trying to understand Tony Stark.

Thor was in the most similar situation to him. Bruce was mild-mannered and sweet, as well as a great cook when Health/Pepper took over and decreed no fast food the rest of the week, but had the best time in the lab with Tony, where Steve was, as he saw it, Not Allowed.

That left two super-assassin-spy-messed-up-people.

Clint and Natasha.

They unnerved him, and the part of him that was, dare he admit it, proud and so _righteous _unconsciously believed that had he been tortured, trained from childhood, and brainwashed, he would still have a conscience. That he would be able to stop himself from killing innocents, that he would realize his true enemies and stand up to them.

It was the same part of him that had been, and still was a little, disgusted by Tony Stark.

Clint he could get over. He was, after all, mind controlled by Loki – something he really had trouble getting over, but could, eventually.

Natasha, though…

Natasha scared him.

At first glance she seemed the Black Widow, a master assassin proud of the talent she had, rock-hard and immensely powerful, something honed into a sharp, unbeatable tool. The sound of Tony's voice in his earpiece should have taught him that everyone had a conscience.

But it hadn't.

It was Natasha's birthday. Clint had insisted it was her birthday, anyway – the first of November, he said. When asked, Natasha just shrugged and said, in that cold I-can-manipulate-Loki voice: "It was in November."

So of course Tony and Clint – Clint because it was his idea, Tony because he wanted to avoid the Glare of Doom – decided to throw a party. Steve, for his part, just tried to live in the soundproofed training room for a week. (Tony had the unfortunate habit of blasting Black Sabbath "Iron Man" from all the speakers in the house whenever he was doing anything semi-productive. Clint, of course, bought earplugs and found the whole situation hilarious.)

The evening after the party Steve woke up from a nightmare. The "Oh my God, I'm in the future" stage was lasting awfully long. He couldn't sleep, and he went downstairs to relieve his stress the only way he knew how.

The door to the training room was closed.

Glancing around, he opened it. There was no creaking – it was Tony's house after all. What he _did _hear was very, very loud music and the occasional gunshot.

_Is it by mistake or design?_

Natasha was…above the punching bags, climbing the chains. Never touching the ground, spinning, flipping, hitting targets dead center.

_Can you make it feel like home if I tell you you're mine?_

Bang.

Tony's targets would be _gone _by the time she finished with them.

_It's like I told you honey_

Eyes traveling down the room, he saw the bottle of vodka – next to it, a bar of 98% dark chocolate and a glass bowl of the smooth raspberry sorbet – who was it? – Clint had bought for the occasion.

_Louder_

Natasha twisted on the steel beams supporting the high ceiling – twenty-three feet above the ground – to release a volley of darts with a flick of her fingers, landing in a circle of poisonous needles in the middle of a dummy's chest. Steve was vaguely reminded of the arc reactor, and only a little disturbed.

What kind of person practiced killing people for stress relief?

_Don't make me sad, don't make me cry_

"Are you drunk?" he called up, fairly nervous.

_Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why_

Swinging down to crouch on the nearest punching bag, the Black Widow rolled her eyes, voice crisp and professional. "What do you think?"

"Um…"

"I don't _get_ drunk, Rogers." Her chin is up, ready for a fight. "I have more control than that. Do you think the Russians would let a weakling survive?"

_Keep making me laugh_

And of course the only thing he can think of to say is "Why are you drinking then?"

She fixes him with a look he can only describe as intense. "To pretend to get drunk."

_Come take a walk on the wild side_

_Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain_

_You like your girls insane_

The more he watches, the more it seems like a dance. That's how she fights, he realizes, like she's dancing.

And right now, whether it be the music or the knives in the dummies' eyes, the room is so sad, upset, and almost disgusted, that he can feel the…emotion rushing by him.

_Choose your last words, this is the last time_

'_Cause you and I_

_We were born to die_

He hadn't thought the Black Widow could even have emotions.

Then again, to the rest of them, she didn't. Natasha was training in a soundproof room half-underground, to songs she was blasting at top volume but couldn't be heard, with raspberry sorbet and quality vodka and razor-sharp control.

Slowly, he leaves. After all, it is her birthday.


	3. Bruce

**So...here's Bruce...who is really nice. :)**

** Sorry that this fic is so chock-full of Tony. I love him. I can't help it.**

* * *

**Natasha**

**Bruce, or "The Nice Guy"**

Bruce was, admittedly, the happiest with the Avengers than he'd been in a long time. Probably forever.

This was, in two words, due to a man named Tony Stark.

He set the record, trying to tick him off every five seconds, sparking him on the Helicarrier and – telling him he could control the other guy.

It was sort of…as if someone had faith in him. Someone who was, without a doubt, completely messed up himself.

They were all messed up.

That was why being "dragged back into this freak show" was something he thought he might, eventually, be comfortable with.

What he wasn't comfortable with was how he'd almost killed Natasha. And it wasn't the other guy, it was him. His fault. He had been…so angry.

Bruce tried to apologize, but she just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He read the message: I do stuff like that every day, problem with that?

Still, he tried to make it up to her in small ways, never bothering her like Tony did or asking about her past or pointing out that "duh, Clint likes you". Instead, he stayed quiet, and she always found the hazelnut creamer for her coffee next to its cup when she came up from the training room in the mornings.

And one of the most important things on his quest to Be Nice to Natasha was also the first thing that suggested exactly how many layers of messed up Tony's life was.

No touching.

Natasha was better at hiding it – a lifetime of training must have done it for her. But once he noticed it in Stark, it didn't take him long to see it in her, too.

One evening Tony walked into the kitchen glaring at anything that moved. Bruce didn't dare to ask what the matter was, but when he stomped away from Pepper, it was too much.

Pepper grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. "Tony –"

She never got to finish her sentence.

Tony jerked away, almost tripping over a chair before Pepper yanked him upright. He flinched, straining away from her grip. His brown eyes were wide and held no mockery, no sarcasm, no _recognition. _Her hand froze on his arm.

"Tony." He blinked.

"Please let me go."

Tony left the room. Pepper spent the rest of the afternoon in a corner with her head in her hands, breathing in the steam from a mug of tea Bruce had placed in front of her. The whole episode had lasted about five seconds, but Bruce would never forget the helpless look in Tony's eyes. He knew that he could easily have broken away from her, but in a few seconds he'd forgotten he had the strength to do so.

Natasha was the same. She'd learned to control the reaction; all she did was freeze in place before attacking with what was perhaps her most deadly weapon – the glare. Bruce quickly learned not to bother her when she was doing something, or even to enter a room if she was sleeping in it. She had an agent's hearing and didn't startle as easily as Stark, but it was still terrifying to see the almost imperceptible flinch and realize just how dangerous the Black Widow was.

And when he was terrified, his heart rate went up…

It wasn't until Fury called her in on a mission that he saw what he'd begun to understand spelled out in front of him. Natasha walked out of the elevator a different person – hair shining, skin reeking of perfume, eyes darting around the room with a small, satisfied smile on her lipstick-gleaming lips. She looked like a princess.

She was wearing a red sleeveless dress that touched the floor, a gauzy scarf wrapped around her arms. Tony stepped up behind her and touched her bare shoulder, as if to escort her to the door. She went still and, very slowly, turned her head to meet his eyes, giving him an I-am-disappointed-in-your-lack-of-intellect look. The Black Widow was staring Tony in the face. "You do know I have roughly one hundred ways to kill you? Right now. Twenty seconds." She tilted her head, as if considering. "Give or take a bit."

Stark backed away. Natasha smiled sweetly and moved to get her chauffeur.

He read her file. He knew what she'd done before – used her beauty, her persuasion to get information or murder, making them let their guard down, changing herself to fit a cover again and again. He'd shuddered while reading it. What kind of person would stoop to something like that?

She must have hated it.

_No red clothes. No intimacy. No emotion._

Bruce made a mental note to never tick off Natasha.


End file.
